


Alloy

by Spineless



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, alias - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:21:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spineless/pseuds/Spineless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes may not smoke, but Timothy Carlton certainly does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alloy

**Author's Note:**

> i'm in a bit of a writing rut lately. enjoy~

> alloy ( _n_ )
> 
> •a metal made by combining two or more metallic elements, esp. to give greater strength or resistance to corrosion • an inferior metal mixed with a precious one.

He flips the lighter open and shut with the graceful flick of his wrist. Again and again, the brass prism _shnks_ with every turn of its hinge. Pale fingers run over its surface, dented and scratched from where lighter came in contact with pavement and he would hold his breath, hoping that the trinket wouldn't spontaneously combust, or catch his pant leg on fire. He doesn't even think it has any fluid in it. He's thinking he should probably add some, though. If anyone ever asked for a light, it would be quite embarrassing to be caught hanging onto a broken lighter.  

He flips the zippo closed one last time and slips it into the inside jacket pocket. The brass makes his fingers smell.

(It's a prop of course. Sherlock Holmes may not smoke, but Timothy Carlton certainly does.) 

The newly-bespeckled and pale-haired man sits on an uncomfortable metal chair just outside a small cafe. The air still has that lightly frozen taste of winter, outdoor seating premature, but he doesn't mind the cold. 

A few dog eared scripts sit on the rickety table beside a half-finished watery cup of tea and stale, half eaten pastry. 

(Ah. London.) 

The man tugs down the sleeve of his ill-fitting jacket and lightly touches the side of his face. He wonders if he did a fine enough job covering up the mottled black and blue.

His fingers reek of metal.

Glances at watch, peers across the street, past cars and cabs and pedestrians, keen eyes searching, searching. He's getting impatient.

(He should be here by now. He's late.) 

(This is risky.)

Brow furrows.

(Oh, shush. No one will recognize you.) 

He brings the tea to his lips.

(You're going to sacrifice everything we've worked for for a fleeting glance.) 

He takes a sip.

("We've" worked for?) 

The cup is returned to its saucer.

(You know what I mean.) 

_There_.

Eyes widen a fraction and he cranes his neck.

not sleeping well 

back at the clinic 

new girlfriend--serious about this one

stopped seeing therapist--ah, no

limp's returned-- _limp has returned_

He nearly upsets the teacup.

(I thought you fixed that.)


End file.
